“You mean—a woman,” said Aymer in a strangely quiet voice.
Christopher noticed the scar again, clear and distinct. Aymer took out a cigarette and lit it carefully. Christopher watched dumbly. He wanted to cry: for no reason that he could discover. Presently Aymer turned to him as he sat on a low chair by the side of the wide sofa and put his arm round him again.
“I’m sorry, little Christopher,” he said rather huskily, perhaps because he was smoking, “but I’m afraid I can’t give you that, old chap. We only—remember them here.”
The tired child yielded to the slight pressure of the arm—his head dropped against his new friend—the room was very quiet—only Mr. Aymer must have been mistaken. It seemed to Christopher a thin black-clad woman was in the room—somewhere—she was looking at Aymer and would not see him at first—then she turned her head—he called “Mother,” and opened his eyes to find Mr. Aymer bending over him.
When Mr. Aston had returned and found Aymer smoking composedly with one arm round the sleeping boy, he had pointed out with great care the enormity of a small child being out of bed at eleven o’clock.
Aymer put down his cigarette and looked at his charge. 22
“Vespasian did come for him,” he confessed; “I thought it a pity to wake him till you came. It’s just as I feared,” he added with assumed pathos, “you have had first innings and I shall have to take a second place.”
“It’s only just that he got used to me: I hardly talked to him at all,” pleaded Mr. Aston humbly, and Aymer laughed. Whereupon Christopher woke up, rubbing his eyes, and smiled sleepily at Mr. Aston.
“I gave him the message, not just at once, but almost.”
His first friend sat down and drew him to his knee.